The Switch
by dust on the wind
Summary: Looking just like someone else can have unexpected problems - and unexpected advantages...
1. Chapter 1

_I do not own any of the characters from the series Hogan's Heroes. However, I claim ownership of any original characters appearing in this story._

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><p>"Hey, Carter, do you have a twin brother?"<p>

Carter, doing up the buttons of his coverall, stopped at the second one down, gazing at Kinch with wide, puzzled eyes. "I got a brother, but we're not twins," he replied doubtfully. "He's still in school back home. And I got two sisters, as well. Why'd you ask?"

"Just wondering," said Kinch. "We had another guy called Carter came through here, not so long ago, and you look just like him, that's all."

Newkirk, who was still in his bunk, propped up on one elbow, snapped his fingers. "That's right. I wondered why you looked so familiar, when you got here," he remarked.

"That'd be Lieutenant Carter, right?" Carter fixed the last two buttons, and peered down at them to make sure he hadn't got them skew. "Yeah, I know him. He doesn't look that much like me."

"Spitting image," said Newkirk. "I'd lay odds your own mum couldn't tell you apart."

"That's what all the guys at Stalag 5 used to say, but I could never see it," said Carter. "I don't think he was real happy about it, either."

He seemed annoyed. So far, during the three weeks since his arrival at Stalag 13, he'd given the impression of being pretty easy-going, but apparently he had at least one touchy point.

The tactful thing to do would be to drop it, but Newkirk had never quite got the hang of tact. "Well, even if he's not your brother, he must be related to you in some way. Cousin, maybe?"

"Not as far as I know. There's lots of Carters out there." Carter pulled his jacket on as he spoke. "Names don't prove anything."

The arrival of Sergeant Schultz, to call the prisoners out for morning assembly, brought the discussion to a close, although Newkirk, never one to let go of the last word, was heard to voice the opinion that a bloke didn't have any business looking so much like another bloke unless that other bloke was a close relative.

Carter let it go. He'd already learned in the short time he'd been here that, apart from Colonel Hogan, nobody ever won an argument with Newkirk. In any case, it didn't really matter who they thought that other guy was. He followed Newkirk out of the barracks and took his place in formation, with Kinch standing next to him, and Newkirk and LeBeau in front. Colonel Hogan sauntered to the end of the front rank, as always with an air of being in control of everything around him. Which, in fact, he was.

This wasn't just any old prison camp; Carter had worked that out within a couple of days of his arrival, even before he'd been told about the covert activities operating from the tunnel network underneath the camp. Important work went on here; the war was being fought from inside the barbed wire. Back at Stalag 5, the prisoners' whole focus had been on finding some means of escape, and getting across the Channel to rejoin their own forces. Here it was different; in order to maintain their cover, the men under Hogan's command had to give up all intention of escaping.

There was no point in regretting it. Stalag 13, such as it was, would be Carter's home for the duration, and he had accepted that, once he knew what was going on. He even had some hopes that once he'd been there for a little longer, Hogan might let him take part in a mission, once in a while. Some really small part, of course; he couldn't expect to ever be part of the command team. But even if he just acted as lookout, or helped to distract the guards, at least then he'd still be doing his bit, even if he was a prisoner of war.

Still, as he waited with his fellow prisoners for the order to fall out, an uninvited, unwelcome thought, prompted by the discussion of his namesake and double, came into his mind.

_I could have been back in England by now..._

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><p>It was that likeness which had started everything, back at Stalag 5. The similarity of form and feature, which neither Technical Sergeant Andrew Carter nor Second Lieutenant Anthony Carter would admit to, was obvious to everyone else, although to be fair, the resemblance was all on the surface. Personality-wise, they were recognisably distinct; nobody had ever had any difficulty telling them apart.<p>

Almost as soon as Sergeant Carter had arrived from the transit camp which had been his first experience of prison life, many of the prisoners, and even some of the guards, had started calling him Andrew, to save confusion. On the other hand, only the officers addressed the lieutenant to his face as "Tony", although behind his back many of the enlisted men were starting to follow suit. It wasn't likely he'd mind, he was pretty easy-going; but the senior POW officer was a real stickler for military etiquette, and it was better not to get his goat.

Everyone liked Tony, and once they all got over the shock of having his double around the place, they took to Andrew as well. But somehow the two Carters just didn't hit it off. As Tony confided to his pals, "He's okay, kind of a nice guy. But it's just weird, having someone around that everyone thinks looks like me. Even though he doesn't." Andrew, uneasily aware that he was the newcomer in this situation, didn't say much about it, but if anyone had asked him about it, he'd have been emphatic enough in his agreement.

They weren't in the same barracks, so they only really encountered one another in the exercise yard, or the prisoners' laundry, or occasionally in the recreation hall; and by tacit but mutual consent they tended to avoid each other.

The rest of the prisoners thought it was hilarious. As it turned out, however, the escape committee took it more seriously.

"Have you got a minute, Carter?" The speaker strolled into Barracks 10 as if he owned the place. He was taking a risk. An outbreak of gastritis had temporarily laid up almost half of the German guards, and the prisoners had been confined to barracks for the last week. They were allowed out for mess call, and for one hour of exercise a day, and even then not all the barracks were released at the same time; they ate and exercised in shifts. Unless it was for those necessary activities, any prisoner found out of bounds was just about asking the goons to start shooting, especially this close to lights-out.

Andrew looked up from the letter he was trying to write to his girl back in the States. He found he couldn't exactly tell her what things were like here in Stalag 5; he was pretty sure Mary Jane wouldn't care to hear about dirt, and lice, and bad food, and there wasn't much else to write about. It was kind of a relief to be interrupted.

He couldn't put a name to the RAF sergeant who had claimed his attention, although he vaguely recognised him. He hadn't even got his own barracks mates straightened out yet, and there were at least three hundred other men in this camp. This man was one of the other three hundred, a short, skinny guy with a permanent smug grin on his face, who seemed to act as an unofficial aide-de-camp to the senior prisoner of war officer.

"Sims, didn't anyone ever tell you to knock before you come into someone's bedroom?" said Hanrahan, the senior non-commissioned officer in the barracks.

"Sorry, chum," replied Sims cheerfully. "Only the boss wants a word with young Andrew here. Kind of urgent, like."

"What's it about?" asked Andrew, folding his letter and dropping the pencil on the floor.

"He didn't say." Sims grinned. "But he'd rather the Jerries didn't know about it. So try not to attract attention - I mean don't fall over anything on the way."

"Oh, that's funny, pal," Andrew shot back at him, as he shoved his writing materials under the blanket on his bunk. Turning back, he caught his foot on the upright post at the end, staggered and crashed to the floor, and a general laugh went round, along with the usual crop of jokes.

"Enjoy your trip, Andrew?"

"Fall's come early this year."

Andrew got to his feet, more annoyed than embarrassed, and followed Sims out of the barracks. Outside it was already dark, but the spotlight passing back and forth would easily pick them out if they were careless, and the guards were entitled to shoot any prisoner found out of bounds. The two men kept close to the buildings to avoid detection, and Andrew's heart was racing by the time Sims opened the door of Barracks 1 and shoved him inside.

He knew most of the men here by sight, but it was uncomfortable, finding himself the focus of attention. He blushed, and tried to look nonchalant, as Sims led him to the door of the small separate room allocated to the senior officer, rapped on the door, then opened it and waved Andrew forward.

"Ah, Sergeant Carter." Wing Commander Seymour, a big, fair-haired Englishman, greeted him quite affably. "So glad you could join us, my good man."

"Uh...yessir. Thank you, sir." Andrew saluted, unsure of his ground here. So far, Seymour hadn't so much as acknowledged his existence, and this unexpected cordiality was disconcerting.

"You know Lieutenant Carter, of course." Seymour nodded towards the other man present.

"Yes, sir." Andrew glanced at his double, aware of the vague sense of dislocation that always troubled him at seeing his own face attached to someone else. The lieutenant seemed just as self-conscious, if his heightened colour and lowered eyes were anything to go by.

"Jolly good, that'll save time," Seymour went on. "We have to get both of you back to your own barracks before the guards do their rounds. Carter - Sergeant, I mean - you know, of course, that as prisoners of war our primary duty is to escape, or to help our fellow servicemen to do so."

"Uh...yes, sir," said Andrew again. He was starting to feel as if those were the only words he knew.

"Up till now, what I'm about to tell you has been very hush-hush. We've been working on a tunnel for the last five months, leading from beneath the camp kitchen to the bank and ditch above the main road outside the fence. It's almost finished, and a dozen chaps will head out at the end of the week. The thing is, our contacts in the Underground have just got word to us that they can accommodate one extra man, provided he leaves in two days' time. Apparently they had a cancellation - escape from Stalag 6 fell through, so they've got a vacancy, and they've offered it to us."

"But sir, won't that foul things up for the escape we've already got planned?" asked Lieutenant Carter.

"Not if the management don't happen to notice that they're a man short," replied Seymour. "One of the lads on the escape committee has come up with a rather clever idea. As we just happen to have two chaps who look just like each other - that's you two, of course - we've got a perfect chance to pull it off. The Jerries are under strength at the moment, owing to this jolly old stomach bug of theirs, and they aren't calling us out for roll-call, they're doing barracks checks instead. So if one of you makes a dash for it, the other one, with a bit of dodging about, can cover for him. Then when the main escape happens, Kommandant Vogel won't think to ask if one of his missing prisoners left a few days before the others."

It sounded plausible, but Andrew's stomach knotted up. He was pretty sure he knew which would be his part in the plan, and it was going to be no walk in the park. He didn't have the nerve to protest, but apparently the lieutenant had thought of it, too.

"Won't that be pretty rough on the guy that stays behind, sir?" he asked. "I mean, if the Krauts get wise to it, Vogel's going to come down on him like a ton of bricks. And even if that doesn't happen, it's going to mean a whole lot of running round trying to be in the right place all the time."

"You're quite right, my dear boy," replied Seymour. "That's why we on the escape committee have decided that, for both of you, it's strictly voluntary. And before you decide, there's one other thing."

He paused, cleared his throat, then with an apologetic glance at the lieutenant, went on. "With any regular escape plan, there wouldn't be any question about it. Tony, you've been here longer, and you've put in a lot of work, digging in the tunnel - probably more work than any of the men who'll be using it. So in theory, you've earned the right to take this opportunity. However..." His eyes turned towards Andrew. "The man who stays behind, as you say, is risking a lot. If he's caught, he could spend the next six months in solitary, on bread and water. And that's if Vogel's feeling generous. For that reason, we've decided that the only fair way is to give both of you an equal chance."

He drew a coin from his pocket. "If you both agree to accept the result, and to do your part no matter which way it goes, then we'll toss for it."

Andrew stared at him, dumbfounded. He'd never expected that. They were giving him a chance, after all. He was lost for words, until he heard a soft, almost inaudible sigh from the man standing next to him.

"Okay, sergeant. Who's going to call it, me or you?"

"You better do it." Andrew gave him a quick sideways look. "You're the officer...sir."

"All right." Lieutenant Carter raised his head. "Heads."

The coin glittered as it rose and fell. Unconsciously both Carters leaned forward, as if they hoped to see the result through Seymour's covering hand. For several seconds, neither of them even breathed.

"Sorry, Tony." Seymour's voice was almost expressionless. "Tails."

Andrew let his breath go in a startled, incredulous laugh.

"Congratulations, sergeant." The voice, so like his own, broke through his amazement, bringing him back to reality. He quickly raised his eyes, realising what this meant to the lieutenant. But there was no sign of disappointment on Anthony Carter's face. He even managed a smile, as he offered his hand to his lookalike.

"Thanks," stammered Andrew, accepting the handshake. A vague sense of relief added its note to the chorus of elation and excitement in his head; the joyful thoughts overwhelmed everything.

He was going to get out of here. In a few days, he'd be on his way back to England, and he'd be flying with his buddies again before he knew it. And it had all come about so suddenly that he hardly believed it.


	2. Chapter 2

For the next twenty-four hours, Andrew was kept busy.

It surprised him how much there was for him to learn. He had to memorise the route from the tunnel exit to the first safe house, along with the recognition code which would identify him to his prospective hosts, and the secret signal they would leave outside if it was unsafe for him to approach. In that eventuality, another refuge was available, and he had to know how to get there, too. Then there were code names; his first contact was Grey Squirrel, who would pass him on to the Boatman, who in turn would direct him to Goldilocks. It was a lot to take in.

Unfortunately, the only thing worse than Andrew's memory for details was his sense of direction.

"You daren't risk having anything on paper," Seymour explained stiffly, when the prospective escapee ventured to ask if he could take the map with him when he went. "If you were to be caught, you'd be searched, and once the Jerries found it...well, it would be all up for our friends on the outside."

He looked down his nose as he spoke, as if wondering whether anyone could be so stupid as to overlook such an obvious fact. Andrew flushed, stammered an apology and withdrew, feeling like a complete idiot, to put in a couple of hours of study.

"The bluebells are early, but the hyacinths are late," he muttered to himself, over and over. It seemed a pretty dumb thing to say to complete strangers, especially as spring was months away; but that seemingly pointless remark would identify him to his Underground contacts, when he made it to the farmhouse a few miles from camp. Assuming he got there all right, in the dark, without a map. And provided that when he got there he could remember what he was meant to say.

"Well, nobody ever said escaping from a prison camp in Nazi Germany was easy," remarked Hanrahan, as the men of Barracks 10 headed out for the compulsory exercise period, the day after Andrew had been given the news. "At least you're getting the chance. There's guys who'd sell their own mothers to get out of here. So whatever you do, don't blow it."

"Yeah, thanks, pal," muttered Andrew, as Hanrahan strolled off to the other side of the volleyball net. "That makes me feel a lot better."

He hunched in his jacket, and went to sit on the low bench which stood outside the barracks. For a couple of minutes he stared at nothing.

"The bluebells are over the white cliffs of...wait, that ain't right," he mumbled.

He had a day and a half to get it straight. And to learn the escape route. How hard could it be?

With a third of the guards still on the sick list, the prisoners remained under stricter conditions than usual; only three barracks were allowed to take their exercise at any one time. On the other side of the parade ground, Andrew spotted his double, just released from Barracks 4. Tony had caught sight of him, too; automatically, they both headed towards the middle of the yard.

"How's it coming?" asked Tony.

"Great. Just great. Yep, going real good." There was no way Andrew was going to admit he was struggling with it. "How about you?"

"Well, I don't have so much to do," replied Tony. "Not till you're gone, anyway. After that, I'll be real busy."

"Say, how's that gonna work?" Andrew asked, after a couple of moments. "I mean, even though we're not having assembly, they're still taking roll call twice a day. So, how are you supposed to get from one barracks to the other without some of the goons seeing you?"

"The committee's got it all worked out," said Tony, his forehead wrinkling slightly as if he wasn't sure himself. "We're gonna give it a try today, see if it works. See, what the Krauts don't know is..."

"Now, then, let's have a little less chatting, and a little more exercise, gentlemen." Sims had come up behind them, while they were talking. "Andrew, they're looking for an extra man at the volleyball net. And you might like to join in with the callisthenics, Lieutenant." He glanced from one Carter to the other, head tilted on one side. Tony flushed, murmured something incoherent, and moved away

"Just a word of advice," Sims went on, regarding Andrew with a gleam in his eye. "It's better if you two aren't seen talking to each other. We don't want any of the guards putting two and two together, do we?"

He strolled off, leaving Andrew feeling resentful, like a schoolboy reprimanded for some unintended breach of the rules, and wondering how come the British all seemed to be so darn superior, and whether he'd ever meet one of them he could get along with.

Back in the barracks, after the exercise period, he picked up the book he'd left lying on his bunk. The map of the escape route had been fastened inside, between the pages, stitched to the binding and trimmed neatly so it didn't show. He flopped onto the mattress and propped himself up on one elbow, studying the route.

Without being asked, the other men left him alone. A few of them started a poker game, gradually drawing in more men until nearly all of them were either playing or watching. They got pretty noisy, but one of the first things any new prisoner learned was to ignore the hubbub; Andrew was scarcely aware of it, but the tapping noise from the far end of the barracks was something new, and didn't take long to break into his concentration.

"Hey, fellers, can you cut that out?" he called, without looking up. Nobody replied, but the sound was repeated, a little louder this time. Andrew raised his head, peering towards the source. Then he put the book down, got up and went for a closer look.

None of the men were at this end of the barracks, but the rapping continued, apparently coming from underneath the floor near the washstand. "Uh, guys?" Andrew called over his shoulder. "Something funny's going on."

He crouched next to the washstand, listening. Whatever it was seemed to have stopped. Then it sounded again, so suddenly and so loud that Andrew jumped, lost his balance and grabbed the leg of the stand to keep from falling over.

It wasn't as secure as he thought; the entire fixture tilted from the base, and fell sideways, and Andrew landed on the floor with a thud.

"What the..." Hanrahan, his cards still in his hand, came at a run, and stopped dead, staring at the hole in the floor which had been exposed.

Then a voice rose from below: "And it's about bloody time. What's the matter with you lot, are you all bleedin' deaf?" Sims's head and shoulders appeared from the depths. "Don't bother giving me a hand," he added in acid tones. "I can manage."

As Hanrahan was already helping Andrew to his feet, he didn't take the hint, but a couple of the others hauled the Englishman out of the hole, allowing a second visitor to emerge.

"I'm just showing Lieutenant Carter how to get from Point A to Point B without being seen," Sims went on, brushing the soil from his hands and clothes. "And I hope you lot are a bit quicker off the mark the next time, otherwise he'll only be halfway out of the ground when the Krauts come barging in to do the head count."

"Well, if you'd told us to expect visitors, Sims, we'd have made sure the doorbell was in order," Hanrahan remarked sourly. "And if you leave all that dirt lying on the floor, the Krauts are going to start looking for where it came from."

"Sorry, chum," replied Sims, although he didn't sound sorry at all. "Thing is, it's a bit cramped down there, so you can only get through crawling on your stomach. Someone'll have to sweep up whenever Lieutenant Carter comes in. But it's a nice little tunnel apart from that."

"Yeah, since when has there been a tunnel under the barracks?" Hanrahan grumbled, stooping to help Tony out of the tunnel.

Sims laughed. "Before your time, mate. When this place first opened, this end of the camp was mostly French and Polish. Well, they started digging, didn't they? Nearly made it, too, only they didn't go down deep enough. It was the delousing station falling in like that gave it away." He sniggered at the memory. "Well, that brought the whole project to a halt. Vogel had the ringleaders transferred, and made the rest of 'em fill it in. But they managed to keep this bit from being discovered, which is handy for us. You all right, Lieutenant?"

"Fine," muttered Tony indistinctly. He was flushed, and breathing fast. "Just I didn't expect it to be that narrow."

"Well, I'll grant you, it's not as roomy as the one you've been working in," replied Sims. "The fellows who built this one cut some corners. They were in a bit of a hurry to get home. It's not a nice feeling knowing your country's been overrun, you know." The mask of smug self-possession didn't falter, but his voice dropped a little. Apparently the desperation of those men had struck a chord.

"Have a seat, Lieutenant," said Hanrahan. "Okay, Sims, what's the deal? I guess the lieutenant comes in through there after the goons have finished the head count in Barracks 4, right?"

"Right. They always check the barracks in the same order, and we've worked out that from when they finish Barracks 4 till they get here is roughly nine or ten minutes. Allowing about six, maybe seven minutes to get along the tunnel, which is slow going, it's going to be close. The lads in the barracks in between are going to try to delay them a little each time, to stretch it out, but you'll have to be on the ball in here, because by the time Tony - beg pardon, Lieutenant - by the time he gets here, he won't have much time to change into Andrew's uniform. Think you can manage?"

Hanrahan glanced at Tony, who was starting to get his breath back. "I guess so. It's in a good cause, anyway, right, Andrew?"

"Right," said Andrew quickly.

"All right, then, we'll have a couple of trial runs tomorrow," replied Sims. He turned to Andrew. "If it goes off all right, then you'll be heading out tomorrow evening. I'll show you the tunnel entrance this evening at mess call. Now, you know the route to the safe house, don't you?"

"Yeah, I think so," stammered Andrew, going scarlet as everyone looked at him.

"Thinking so isn't good enough," said Sims. "You have to be sure." He paused, then snapped out, "What's the recognition code? Quickly, now."

The suddenness of the demand sent Andrew's wits into freefall. For a couple of seconds he couldn't remember a thing. Then a couple of words floated to the surface. "Uh...the hyacinths are blue...and the bells...the bells are ringing..." He trailed off, mortified at how completely wrong he'd got it.

Sims gazed at him sorrowfully. "Andrew, my boy," he said, "you've got some work to do."


	3. Chapter 3

_Author's note: Lt. Cmdr J. Chrisp's memoir, "The Tunnellers of Sandborstal", was very helpful in writing this chapter, both for general information on life in a POW camp, and for an understanding of the technicalities of digging an escape tunnel._

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><p>The mess hall stood at the end of the compound, just close enough to the fence to make it viable to run a tunnel from there to the outside.<p>

"We've got our own men in charge of the kitchen," Sims explained quietly, as he stood behind Andrew in the dinner queue, tin plate and mug in hand. He shouldn't even have been there; mess call, like other activities, was staggered, and his barracks had been rostered for second sitting this week. But Sims seemed to get away with a lot more than he should; mostly, Andrew suspected, by slipping the guards a few cigarettes, or the occasional tin of milk from the packages supplied to the prisoners by the Red Cross.

"The Kommandant doesn't pay much attention to the duty roster," Sims continued, "so we've had the same little gang of trusties in there for the last six months. It makes it easier to work on our little construction project. I just wish they weren't such bloody awful cooks."

He peered suspiciously at the contents of the servery. "Don't have the soup," he added, raising his voice a little. "I think it's the leftover gravy from yesterday."

"That's all you know," responded the server. "We used that to clear the drains. This is the leftover mashed potatoes from Thursday. We just thinned it down."

"Rummy colour for potatoes, isn't it?" said Sims. "You know, Hanson, if you were on the other side, you could get done for this under the Geneva Prisoner of War Convention."

They were joking, of course. Gravy never figured on the menu, and the only potato to find its way there consisted of the peelings from the Krauts' own mess hall. Anyway, there were never any leftovers; no matter how bad the food was, the prisoners were hungry enough to clear it out, and look for more. The Germans provided only the most basic sustenance: heavy black bread, thin flavourless gruel, no meat, few vegetables. Even eked out with supplies from the prisoners' Red Cross packages, it was an uphill battle for the cooks; rumour had it that on the rare occasions when fresh meat appeared, it meant one of the guard dogs had died overnight.

"It doesn't look that bad," murmured Andrew, leaning forward for a closer look, and wrinkling his nose. "At least it isn't moving. That's got to be good, right?"

Sims sighed, and shook his head. "Scarcely six weeks since you got here, and your mind's already going," he observed. "We really have to get you out of here, chum."

He waved away the ladleful of warm but unidentifiable mush Hanson was offering him. "No, thanks, I'm on a diet. No fats, no starches and no deadly bacteria. All in order out back, is it? Any vermin around?"

"Not right now," replied Hanson, dumping the mess onto the next man's plate.

"Just what we like to hear. Cover for us, will you, lads?" murmured Sims.

The man standing behind him promptly turned on his neighbour. "And I'm telling you, buddy, that's my mess kit you're using."

"I don't see your name on it, pal," the accused man snapped back.

A voice from further along joined in: "That's because he stole it from me."

As more of the prisoners added their contributions, Sims gave Andrew a gentle nudge, pushing him out of the line towards the kitchen door. The ruckus soon grew loud enough to attract the attention of all the guards, allowing the two of them to slip out to the kitchen without being noticed.

Andrew stopped short just inside the door, met by a smell the like of which he'd never experienced in his life. Sims, however, took it in his stride. "Evening, Neville," he said cheerfully.

Two of the three men working in the kitchen ignored their arrival. Only the head cook acknowledged the greeting. "If you're here to complain, let me assure you it's no fault of ours. Our order from Fortnum and Mason didn't arrive. Terribly bad show, what?"

Sims wasn't about to be diverted, "You've not met Sergeant Carter, have you?" he went on. "Andrew, this is Corporal Fuller - Neville, to his mates. Where's your little pal, Nev?"

"Heidelbacher? Not very well, poor chap," replied Fuller. "He's only just back off sick leave, you know. Still feeling a tad fragile, and it seems he no longer cares for sauerkraut. Not when it's being boiled, at any rate." Well, that explained the smell.

"Anyone down below?" asked Sims.

Fuller grinned complacently. "Good heavens, yes, old man. There's still a little work to do down there, I believe, so they're working overtime. Watch the door, Martin."

At the far end of the kitchen, a corner had been walled off to form a pantry closet. Fuller opened the door, revealing a space just large enough to walk inside, lined on either side with shelves holding various pots and dishes. He glanced over his shoulder, then picked up a broom which stood beside the door. Turning it bristle side up with practiced grace, he slid the end of the handle into a small gap, where apparently one of the floorboards had had a splinter broken off. Sims came to his assistance as he leaned on the other end of the broom, using it as a lever to raise the entire floor inside the closet. The opening thus exposed was just wide enough for someone of fairly slight build to be able to squeeze through.

"Don't hang about, Carter," said Sims. "We don't want the goons wandering in and finding a bleedin' great hole in the floor, do we?"

Andrew gave a start, and hastily clambered into the hole. His feet found the first rung of a rough wooden ladder which had been fixed to the side, and he wondered vaguely how far down it went. But he didn't have time to speculate; Sims was already following him, and he had no choice but to descend. It was pitch dark; the air was cold, and smelled of earth.

His foot, reaching for the next rung, found instead the floor of the tunnel, and he stopped for a moment, disoriented. Then he stumbled to one side, keeping one hand on the wall.

"Here we go." Sims dropped beside him in the darkness. "Now, just give me a moment..." He struck a match, and by that feeble light Andrew got his first look at the escape tunnel.

It didn't look much. The access shaft widened out to form a small chamber, barely high enough to stand upright in. A small niche beside the ladder held a couple of candles, one of which Sims lit. By this stronger light, Andrew could make out the timber supports which kept this tiny space from collapsing on itself, and the tunnel proper, opening directly opposite the ladder. It looked just high enough for a man to get through on his hands and knees, and too narrow to turn around.

"Is it that low all the way?" asked Andrew. Enclosed spaces held no particular fears for him, but it would be uncomfortable crawling for what was probably a fair distance.

Sims sighed. "What did you expect - Paddington bleedin' Station? And keep your voice down. They've got microphones buried all over the place, we don't want them picking up anything."

He rummaged in the alcove, and brought out an old Spam tin, with one side cut away and a circular band of cotton webbing attached. A candle-end had been stuck inside the tin, making an improvised miner's lamp.

"Gosh, that's clever," whispered Andrew. "I gotta remember that."

"If everything goes according to plan, you won't need to," Sims murmured back. He fastened the band around Andrew's head, and lit the candle. "Off you go. I'll be right behind you. The first section's about forty feet long, then it opens up a bit."

Feeling as if this was the real escape, rather than just a familiarisation exercise, Andrew took a deep breath, and crawled into the tunnel. It actually wasn't so bad, he decided; wide enough so he wasn't bumping against the sides, and sufficiently high so he could keep his head up and see where he was going.

"Hey, Sims," he hissed. "The tunnel between the barracks, the one the lieutenant's going to use when he's pretending to be me - is it like this?"

"Nothing like it, chum," replied Sims. "That one's a bit of a tight squeeze."

For some time neither of them spoke; crawling through such a confined space was hard work, and Andrew found he had little breath to spare. In spite of the chill down here, he was damp with sweat, and felt like he'd come a very long way He was just starting to wonder if he'd somehow taken a wrong turn, when the ground beneath his hands unexpectedly dipped, and he found himself sliding forwards.

"Careful, there," said a familiar voice, as someone grabbed his arms to steady him. He blinked the sweat from his eyes and looked up, experiencing as usual a jolt of disorientation as he saw his own face gazing back at him.

"Sorry about that." Sims eased himself out of the passage. "I meant to warn you, we made a bit of head room just here by lowering the floor. How's it coming along, Lieutenant?"

Tony sat back on his heels. He was wearing some kind of coverall, and his face and hands were streaked with dirt. It was hard to tell, the light was so bad, but Andrew thought he looked a little edgy.

"We're through," he said. "Came out pretty well exactly where we thought it would."

"Where you thought, you mean," replied Sims. "You're the one who worked out the line and the measurements. Will it hold up?"

"Oh, sure," said Tony. "The fellers just have to put some extra battens in to keep it from collapsing. The soil's a bit loose down that end." He glanced at Andrew. "Better play safe, don't go down there till you have to. It's a straight run, so it's not like you're gonna get lost on the way, is it?"

"No, that'll happen once he's out." Sims grinned. He probably had no idea how close he was to the truth, but Andrew felt the heat of embarrassment flood over his face.

"Right, then, young Andrew," the Englishman continued. "Back the way we came. Are you going back up top, Lieutenant? After you, then."

Feeling a trifle let down, Andrew followed his namesake back to the access shaft below the mess kitchen. "Wait here," said Tony, and went up the ladder.

"He's got to check if the coast is clear," Sims explained, taking Andrew's lamp and stowing it away. "Whenever the guards are hanging about, Neville starts singing _The Last Rose Of Summer_. At least, I think that's what it is. Could be almost anything, really."

A minute later, a low whistle sounded from overhead, and Sims nodded. "Off you go, and look sharp about it."

Andrew scrambled up the ladder, blinking as his eyes met the light from above. The cook helped him out, with a soft snigger as he glanced from one Carter to the other. "I say, you two really do make a man think he's had too much to drink. Or not enough." Two identical scowls greeted this remark, to his further amusement.

"That'll do, Nev," observed Sims, coming up last. "Though I have to admit, they really do..."

"Yeah, okay. Thanks, Sergeant," snapped Tony. "We've been told."

It made little impression on Sims. He helped Fuller to close the trapdoor, then gave the lieutenant a friendly grin. "You want to clean up a bit, before you leave," he remarked. "You too, Andrew. Oh, by the way, what was that recognition code again?"

Just like the last time, the unexpected question threw Andrew into confusion. He stared wide-eyed at Sims, his mouth opening and closing wordlessly. Finally he managed to get some kind of answer out: "The...the blueberries are late, but the hazelnuts...no, wait, I got it, it's not hazelnuts, it's..."

"Hyacinths," said Tony over his shoulder, as he washed his hands at the kitchen sink. "The bluebells are early but the hyacinths are late."

"That's it," Andrew stammered. "Bluebells and hyacinths. I just forgot for a second."

Sims regarded him with weary patience. "Maybe we should send the lieutenant with you, in case you need a prompt when you get there. Except that'd rather spoil the whole plan, seeing we don't happen to have another identical twin for either of you."

Andrew went scarlet, lowered his gaze and turned hastily towards the sink. Discomfited, he failed to notice one of the kitchen hands was also headed in that direction, bearing a tray heaped with pans and utensils. The resultant crash was spectacular; it must have been audible from the main gate.

Tony reacted fast. He flew across the floor and dragged Andrew back to his feet. "The cupboard," he hissed.

Fuller flung the door open, allowing both Carters to dive inside, with Sims just behind them. A moment later they heard the head cook berating the hapless Martin for his negligence.

"_Was ist passiert_?" One of the guards burst in, but Fuller paid no attention, continuing to tear strips off his assistant, while Martin tried feebly to excuse himself.

"_Achtung_!" bellowed the guard.

"Oh, for heaven's sake, what do you want?" Fuller broke off abruptly, and turned an icy glare on the German.

"What has happened?" the guard demanded.

"Butterfingers here dropped a couple of saucepans. Nothing to get excited about. Now, clear up that mess, Martin, and in future be a little more careful."

"Y-yes, chef. S-sorry, chef," stammered Martin.

"Please accept my apologies for the disturbance, Corporal Schneider," Fuller went on. "Now, if you don't mind, we've got another two hundred hungry men to feed before curfew."

In the darkness of the pantry, Andrew scarcely dared breathe. He could sense the tension in Sims' wiry frame; Tony's anxiety was like an electric current. If the whole enterprise should be discovered now...

There was silence outside, for what seemed an age. They heard the main door to the dining hall swing out and back again. A few taut seconds longer, then Fuller opened the pantry door.

"That was a little too close, chaps," he remarked.

"Boy, I didn't think he was going to leave," said Tony, with a sigh of relief.

"Oh, you know what Schneider is like. The kitchen's not his responsibility," replied Fuller airily.

"Lucky for us. Best not take any more chances, though," Sims put in. "You two, get back to your barracks, and keep out of trouble."

Andrew hesitated. "Hey, I'm real sorry," he mumbled. "It was my fault."

Fuller gave him a speculative glance. "You're the chap who's heading out tomorrow night?"

"Yeah, that's me." Andrew still got a mild shock of astonishment at the thought.

"Jolly good. Best of luck with it," said Fuller, with a smile. "I'll tell you what, there's something you might do for me, just as a personal favour."

"Anything. Anything at all."

The smile faded. "Until it's time to leave," replied Fuller, "stay out of my kitchen."


	4. Chapter 4

Night had fallen; the last night of Andrew's imprisonment, if everything went to plan. The lights had gone off at the usual time, and an uneasy quiet lay over Stalag 5.

Andrew couldn't sleep. He'd never been more aware of the presence of others, and yet he'd never felt more alone than he did now, surrounded by his fellow prisoners. This time tomorrow night, he'd be completely on his own. He felt as if his escape had already begun.

He had to get it right. If he couldn't manage to straighten out his bluebells and hyacinths, or if he couldn't find his way to the first safe house, then the whole scheme would collapse. It would mean capture and punishment, and end his hopes of getting out of Germany. And now he'd had time for it to sink in, he knew how much he wanted to get out; more than he'd ever wanted anything.

The worst of it was, if he got caught, others would suffer the consequences. The men scheduled to leave at the end of the week would lose their chance, and there was no telling what disciplinary action might be taken against the other prisoners who had laboured for months to get to this point. All their effort and risk would go for nothing, and apart from Andrew himself, the man facing the toughest penalties would probably be his stand-in.

_I can't foul this up_, thought Andrew, lying wide awake in the darkness. And it occurred to him that, had the coin toss gone the other way, it would have been Tony who had to learn directions and codes, and Tony would probably have been better at it. But he pushed the thought away.

He turned over, carefully so as not to wake the others, and groped in the darkness for the book which contained the map, and for more than an hour, tented under his blanket to shield his flashlight from any guards who might be passing, he studied the escape route. It seemed direct enough, but the moment he closed his eyes, it vanished from his memory. He couldn't even remember whether, when he exited the tunnel, he was supposed to turn right or left. Finally he fell into a troubled slumber, and a vision of emerging from the tunnel to find himself in the middle of Berlin, with the Brandenburg Gate looming over his head, and a seriously ticked-off Hitler standing by with folded arms, tapping his foot and glaring at him.

It didn't exactly make for a good night's rest.

Hanrahan had the men up early, ready for roll-call. This would be the first dummy run for Tony, to see whether he was able to get here and change into Andrew's clothes before the guards arrived for the head count. The barracks chief allocated duties with perfect calm.

"Clarke and Lopez will help the lieutenant get changed. Camilleri, you'll take his uniform and stash it in the laundry hamper. Thorpe, you sweep up, make sure there's no dirt on the floor around the tunnel entrance. Carter, stand by in case there's any problems. If everything's on track, you get into the back room, and stay out of sight." He nodded towards the small separate room which, by right of seniority, was allocated as his sleeping quarters, and which he shared with Camilleri, the resident insomniac.

"They'll have started their rounds," Hanrahan went on, checking his watch. "Allen, keep watch. The other barracks will signal where the Krauts are up to. And everyone, stay cool. We gotta make this work. All clear? Right, take your positions."

Andrew moved back towards the door of the back room. He wanted to help, but his job now was to keep out of the way. Clarke and Lopez were already standing by the washstand over the tunnel entrance, while Allen had taken up position at the door, watching for the signal from the back window of the barracks across the way.

A couple of minutes passed in silence.

"They've left Barracks 4," Allen reported. Andrew felt his palms start to sweat. Tony would be entering the tunnel now. Sims had estimated six or seven minutes for him to get from there to here, and only a couple of minutes longer for the guards. It was going to be close.

Barracks 5 was checked; Barracks 6, then 7. In each hut, the prisoners had done their part; the round was nearly two minutes behind schedule. Still no sound from below the washstand. Then just as the guards reached Barracks 9, a faint scratching was heard. Lopez and Clarke, on the alert, responded at once, tipped the fixture on its side and pulled Tony up from under the floor. He was breathless, his face scarlet and glistening with perspiration.

"Sorry," he panted. "Took longer than..."

"Easy, Lieutenant," said Hanrahan. "Allen, where are the goons?"

"Barracks 9," replied Allen. "We got maybe two minutes."

"He'll never do it," muttered Hanrahan, waving Lopez away as he came forward with Andrew's spare coverall.

"I'll be fine," Tony said quickly. "Just give me a couple of seconds." He straightened up, swaying slightly, still hyperventilating.

Hanrahan grabbed his arm to steady him. "No good. Even if you had time to change, one look at you and they'll know something's up. We better scrub it for now."

He steered the lieutenant to the door of the back room and pushed him inside. "Get that washstand back upright," he snapped. "Thorpe, start sweeping. The rest of you..."

"Goons coming," hissed Allen.

There wasn't time for further orders. Lopez flung the unwanted coverall into the laundry basket; the washstand was fixed in place, and the men, without being told, found something to be busy with. By the time one of the guards flung the door open, with a resounding "_Achtung_!", everything appeared in order. Thorpe was still sweeping, in the desultory manner of a man with nothing better to do; Clarke was making up his bunk, whistling through his teeth; Andrew had started combing his hair, and Hanrahan had just poured himself a cup of coffee.

"That reminds me, we better get those rat traps finished," he remarked. "You never know what kind of nasty critters might come wandering in."

The Kraut sergeant who had followed his subordinate into the barracks didn't rise to the bait. "You are a funny man, Hanrahan," he replied, quite mildly, as he consulted the clipboard in his hand. "Answer your names when called. Allen - Camilleri - Carter..." The prisoners, standing at their ease, responded in varying tones ranging from surly to impudent; Thorpe didn't even leave off sweeping.

Having checked off every name, Sergeant Dietz turned to leave. As he did, his eye fell on Andrew. He studied him curiously for a few seconds.

"You are Carter?" he asked.

"Uh, yeah," replied Andrew stolidly.

Dietz continued to stare at him. Finally he shook his head, and turned to his underling. "_Hans, du spinnst._ He looks nothing like the other one." He turned on his heels, and stalked out, Hans trotting dutifully two steps behind him.

"That's what I keep saying," Andrew called after them, "but nobody listens."

Allen went to the door, and opened it a crack. "They're on their way to the Kommandant's office," he said.

"Okay, keep watch," replied Hanrahan. He went into the back room, and after a moment's uncertainty Andrew followed. Tony, sitting on the lower bunk, glanced up, then looked away.

"You okay, Lieutenant?"

"Sure," said Tony quickly, standing up. "Hey, I'm real sorry. I was way too slow getting here."

"You better sit a while. You don't look too good."

Tony sighed, and sat down again. "I ought to get back. Seymour's expecting a report, he wants to know if this is gonna work."

"Okay, I'll check if the coast is clear."

"No, I better take the tunnel again, see if I can improve my time," replied Tony. He seemed resolute, but his voice wavered, and he had to clear his throat. "Can I get some water?"

Hanrahan went to fetch it, while Andrew remained loitering nervously just inside the door, his head slightly tilted as he studied his double.

"Pretty rough down there, huh?" he asked.

Tony shrugged, embarrassed. "I guess so."

Andrew hesitated again, then scrabbled in his pocket for his cigarettes, and tentatively offered one, and with equal diffidence Tony accepted it. Then Hanrahan returned, and both of them instinctively moved back, as if they'd been caught doing something they shouldn't.

Hanrahan chuckled, and handed Tony a mug. "Take your time, lieutenant," he said, producing a lighter. "Here, let me."

Tony leaned against the upright post of the bunk. "You know, it's not so bad down there," he remarked, in a would-be casual tone. "I just got a little...well, I guess I thought it'd be like our tunnel, but it's kind of like a worm hole. You're on your elbows all the time, and there's nowhere you can turn round at all. But it's really not that bad."

"Uh-huh," grunted Hanrahan. His gaze moved from one Carter to the other. "Andrew, why don't you go make up your bed?" he said.

"I already did it," Andrew protested. But Hanrahan wasn't moved.

"Then do it again. It looks like a contour map of the Swiss Alps. I hope you keep things neater when you get back to your squadron." He grinned, to take the edge off the words; after all, he was senior to Andrew only by date of rank.

"For Pete's sakes, Hanrahan, you're worse than my mom," grumbled Andrew, but he did as he was told.

His bunk stood closest to Hanrahan's quarters, and without quite meaning to, he kept listening, but for a couple of minutes nothing was said. Finally Hanrahan spoke. "It doesn't surprise me you got a bit spooked down there. You had a couple of cave-ins when you were digging, didn't you? They told me you were buried once."

"Yeah. But they got me out real fast."

"With respect, lieutenant, you must have been crazy, going back down there."

"It was okay," Tony replied. "Honest, it didn't worry me, not in our tunnel, anyway." He paused for a moment, thinking about it. "I guess maybe because ours is wider, and we got a bit of head room most of the way. This one isn't like that at all. Plus I got a bit confused, wasn't sure if I missed the exit. It doesn't just run from Barracks 4 to here, you know, it starts way back under Barracks 1 and finishes up halfway across the parade ground. If I had've gone too far, I could have gotten stuck. So I had to stop for a minute, try to get my bearings."

"Sounds like fun."

"Yeah, well, it's okay now, I know what to expect. Anyway, it's gotta be done, right?"

Andrew, listening unseen, sighed. It had to be done, for sure.

A minute or so later, the two men came out of the back room. "All clear, Allen?" said Hanrahan. "Okay, guys, give us a hand here."

The washstand was tilted over again. Tony stood over the entrance for a moment, taking a few deep breaths, then got down on his hands and knees; the restricted space in the tunnel meant he had to go in head first. Hanrahan and Lopez gripped his legs and eased him down into the darkness.

"Boy, he's got guts," remarked Thorpe. "You're sure gonna owe him, Carter."

"Yeah," murmured Andrew, straightening the blanket on his bunk again, although there wasn't so much as a ripple there now. The book containing the map of the escape route was lying on the shelf just below the window, along with his unfinished letter to Mary Jane. He couldn't bring himself to do anything about the letter, but he picked up the book, opened it and sat down, gazing at the map. The route was simple, but he knew, as soon as he closed the book, he wouldn't remember any of it.

It just made so much clearer to him what he had to do, and there was no point in putting it off. He closed the book, and stood up.

_The bluebells are early, but the hyacinths are late,_ he thought. _Figures. Now I get it right._

"Hey, Hanrahan." His voice jerked a little with the effort.

"What's up?" asked Hanrahan, turning a keen gaze on him.

Andrew wavered, knowing there would be no going back once he spoke. "I need to go have a talk with Wing Commander Seymour," he said at last. "And I want to take the tunnel, because if he agrees with what I say to him, then for the next couple of days I'm gonna be spending some time down there. So I better find out what I'm letting myself in for."


	5. Chapter 5

At least the occupants of Barracks 1 were on their toes. They responded quickly to the knocking coming from under the floorboards, although their demeanour made it clear they weren't expecting any callers; particularly not the one who emerged under their startled eyes.

For once, Sims was lost for words. "Well, I'm flamin' well blest," he said at last, staring down at Andrew's grimy face.

"Yeah, I guess you probably are," Andrew retorted. "Can I come up there?"

He was actually feeling pretty good, in spite of the scrapes and bruises he'd accumulated as he squirmed his way along the passage below the huts. Sure, it hadn't been the easiest journey he'd ever made, but it hadn't been nearly as bad as he'd expected; and although it hadn't occurred to him to check how long it took, he was pretty sure he'd bettered the other Carter's time. He was more certain than ever that he'd come to the right decision. Now he just had to convince everyone else; that was going to be the hard part.

Sims, recovering his self-possession, gripped Andrew's arm and heaved him up out of the tunnel. "If you're trying to get to Unter den Linden, you took a wrong turn," he remarked.

Andrew was too caught up in what he had to do to take any notice. "Any chance I could talk to the Wing Commander?" he asked. "It's kind of important."

For a few seconds Sims regarded him curiously, before going to the door of Seymour's private sanctum. He disappeared inside, while Andrew, uncomfortably aware of the looks the other men were directing towards him, hastily brushed the worst of the soil off his clothing, and made himself as neat as possible. He knew he had the whole thing worked out right, but the thought of trying to explain made him feel sick with apprehension.

Then Sims came back out, and beckoned him in with a jerk of the head. Andrew straightened his shoulders and followed him into the office.

He hadn't counted on Seymour already having company, and he almost balked when he realised Tony was there. Then he braced up, and took refuge in military protocol. "Sir, Sergeant Carter reporting, sir," he jerked out, saluting.

Seymour returned it. "At ease, Carter. You wanted to see me?"

"Yes, sir. I..." Andrew faltered, then took a deep breath and fixed his eyes on the wall behind the commander. "Sir, request permission _not_ to escape."

Without looking, he knew Tony was staring at him in bewilderment; and he heard a startled grunt from Sims. Seymour apparently took it in his stride, but from the tone in his voice it was clear he wasn't pleased. "Well, I must say, I'm surprised, Sergeant. When I first spoke to you about the matter, you seemed quite keen. Don't you think it's a trifle unsporting of you to change your mind at this late stage?"

"Yes, sir. I know, sir." Andrew didn't dare meet his eyes. This was even worse than he'd expected.

"You understand, a lot of work's already gone into this project," Seymour continued. "The digging crew have put in extra hours overnight to get the tunnel ready ahead of schedule. We've got the kitchen detail putting themselves on the line, and men in four huts risking all kinds of trouble to delay the guards on their inspection round, to give Lieutenant Carter time to get to your barracks. It's not entirely a pleasant experience for him, either. And then there are our friends on the outside, risking their lives to help us. All that just so you can escape, and now you tell me you don't want to. Would you care to explain yourself, Sergeant?"

"Y-yes, sir." Andrew risked a quick look at the senior officer; Seymour's outward expression did nothing to encourage him. "The thing is, sir - well, that's it, all of it. I mean, all that work and trouble, and so many people involved, you want to be sure it's going to work, right? Well, I don't think - I mean, I'm pretty sure..."

He trailed off, then with a desperate effort, he burst out again. "Look, sir, you know what's gonna happen? I'll turn up at that safe house, and I won't remember the recognition code. What happens then? Except it won't matter," he went on rapidly, before Seymour could reply, "because I'll probably be at the wrong house anyway. In fact, I probably won't even get that far, because most likely I'll fall over something and break my leg before I get half a mile. It's just not going to work...sir." He finished with a gasp, remembering who he was speaking to, and his gaze fell to the floor.

After a moment, he went on, without looking up. "If there was more time, I could get it all straightened out - the recognition code, and the route, and everything. I'm not that stupid that I can't learn. But..." Once again he faltered, and fell silent.

"So you're saying you want to give up?" said Tony, after a few seconds.

"That's not it at all." Andrew turned to his double. "I just think maybe - maybe flipping a coin wasn't the right way to decide who did what. 'Cause you don't want to wreck the whole plan by having the wrong guy in the wrong place, doing the wrong thing. Now, you're not so comfortable crawling through really tight places, but you're pretty smart. Heck, you already know the recognition code, and you worked out which way to dig the escape tunnel, so your sense of direction's gotta be good, right? On the other hand, I'm no good at all for any of that kind of stuff, but that little tunnel under the barracks doesn't worry me at all."

"So...?"

"So it's simple," Andrew finished up. "We just have to switch."

For the moment, he'd forgotten they weren't alone. So had Tony, in sheer astonishment. "You mean, you'd stay here, and let me go instead?" he said, in a low, wondering tone. "Andrew, you better think about it. This is probably the only chance you'll get for months. Once those other guys take off, and the Krauts find out, Vogel's really going to tighten security. You want to get out of here, don't you?"

"Yeah, of course I do," Andrew replied, flushing. "So does every other feller in the place. Thing is, if there's only one guy gets to go, well, it should be the one who's got the best shot at it. That's what I reckon, anyway."

Seymour leaned back, glancing from one man to the other, a slight frown crossing his face as he assessed the new viewpoint. But before he could put his own opinion forth, Sims intervened. "You know, he's right, sir," he murmured, his manner suggesting he'd sooner have a tooth extracted than concede the point. "I didn't want to be the one to say it, but Andrew just isn't ready for this. It'll be a much surer thing if the lieutenant goes instead."

There was a moment of silence. Tony was still staring at Andrew, shaking his head slightly, trying to find a flaw, any flaw, in the argument.

"All right, let's say we change the plan." Seymour leaned his elbows on the desk, pressing his fingertips together. "It would mean you would have to convince the Jerries that you were two different men, which is not as easy as you'd think."

"Gee, sir, I can do that," said Andrew eagerly. "All I gotta do is think like him for a couple of minutes, twice a day. You might not know it, but I'm actually pretty good at that. You can just ask the guys in the barracks, they'll tell you."

"Oh, I've heard, Carter," replied Seymour. "I'm told you do a quite convincing Stan Laurel, and an excellent Adolf Hitler. That's not the same thing at all."

"Well, I guess it is. In fact, it'd be easier, pretending to be the lieutenant, on account of he's not a complete screwball like the Führer."

"Thanks...I think," murmured Tony. He fell silent, as Seymour held up one finger. The senior officer pursed his lips, looking past both Carters as he weighed up their respective strengths and failings. Then he looked at his watch.

"It's now 07.15 hours," he said. "The plan is set for this evening during mess call. Tony, you have just on twelve hours. Can you have all the necessary instructions memorised by then?"

"Well, yes, sir, I guess I could, but..."

"Good. Make sure you do. That's an order." Seymour turned to Andrew. "All right, Sergeant. We'll try it your way."

"Thanks, sir." Andrew blinked; his eyes had suddenly started to sting. Probably just a bit of dirt from the tunnel had found its way there. It couldn't be anything else; after all, he'd got what he had asked for. And the sudden empty feeling in his stomach, well, whatever it was, it wasn't disappointment. He blinked again, and took a quick look at Tony; and the dawning look of dazed, incredulous joy on the lieutenant's face was enough to set Andrew's mind at rest.

_Of course I'm not disappointed_, he thought. _Not even a little bit_.


	6. Chapter 6

The switch, occurring at such a late stage, required some quick adjustments to be made, but Seymour seemed to be on top of the situation.

"You'd better take a bit of time to familiarise yourself with the tunnel under the barracks," he told Andrew. "I haven't been down there, but I gather it's frightfully easy to miss the exits."

He hadn't expressed his approval in words, but he seemed well-disposed, and Andrew ventured to offer another idea. "I was thinking, when I was down there," he replied. "See, it's not real practical to try to see where the exits are. I had a flashlight, but it was kind of hard to use it, and anyway you can't really look up so much. But if you had something hanging from the roof, well, you'd know where you were when you ran into it."

"What did you have in mind?" asked Seymour, regarding him with a bemused expression, as if wondering what other surprises could be contained in such an apparently ordinary package.

Andrew hadn't actually thought that far, so it was a relief when Sims answered the question. "Ping-pong balls," he suggested. "If we hang them off a piece of string from the roof battens at each exit, they'll hit you right in the face without doing any damage."

"Very good. See to that, Sims." Seymour turned a critical eye on the two Carters. "You'll need to get acquainted with Tony's bunkmates as well. Tony, take him across and explain the change of plan. I take it Hanrahan already knows?"

"Yeah, I told him," mumbled Andrew, flushing. Hanrahan had been pretty riled at him for giving up his chance; it hadn't been easy, talking him round.

Seymour pursed his lips in thought. "Tony, make sure Andrew has your spare uniform before this evening," he said. "We'll make the switch at the mess hall tonight." He was still studying Tony with a slight frown. "One more thing," he said. "The wedding ring."

Tony glanced at the gold band on the fourth finger of his left hand. "Sir?"

"It's the kind of detail someone is likely to notice, especially after the fuss there was when it was stolen. The guards know you never take it off since that happened. Before you leave, you'd better let Andrew have it."

Instinctively, Tony put his other hand over the ring. He started to speak, then cut himself off. "Yes, sir," he murmured after a moment.

His reluctance was obvious, and Andrew was moved to protest. But Sims got in first. "Actually, sir, that won't be necessary. I know where I can put my hand on one that's not being used."

His attitude was uncharacteristically reticent, almost embarrassed, and Seymour's eyebrows went up. "Sims, have you been up to your old tricks again?"

"Well, sir, you told me you didn't want to hear any more reports of us playing the guards at pontoon, so I didn't like to mention it," Sims explained, with an ingratiating smile. "But young Gerhardt ran up quite a debt before he was transferred to combat, and he gave me his granddad's old wedding ring in part payment. It looks a lot like Lieutenant Carter's. And I'm sure Gerhardt would be happy to know it's being used for a good cause."

Seymour sighed. "You know, Sims, if you hadn't been captured, you'd almost certainly have made major by now. And then you'd have been cashiered. Carry on."

For the rest of the day, the two men at the centre of the scheme hardly saw each other. Tony, once he'd made Andrew known to his barracks mates, buried himself in the task of learning the escape route. Andrew spent some time underground, getting the hang of moving quickly through the tunnel and working out how much time he'd need. It turned out Sims' estimate of six to seven minutes was right on the money; if the men in the other huts did their bit, and delayed the guards on their round, it would be just about manageable.

"Weather's a bit of a worry," observed Sims, during the afternoon exercise period. He had drafted Andrew over to the horseshoe pitch, where a little private conversation could take place between turns.

Andrew looked up at the heavy, slow-moving clouds. "You think it'll rain?"

"It should hold off tonight," Sims replied, "but if it sets in tomorrow or the day after, it might delay the main escape, and you'd have to do your double act for an extra day or so. Think you can handle that?"

"I can try," said Andrew uneasily. "Depends what you mean by _a day or so_."

Sims chuckled. "We'll play it by ear." He took his turn at tossing, then glanced around casually. No guards were within earshot. "It's all set for tonight," he went on. "Seymour's put you down for jankers - KP, I should say," he amended, seeing the blank look on Andrew's face. "So you'll report to the mess kitchen at seventeen hundred hours. You'll wear the lieutenant's uniform under your own. At some stage during mess, Tony's going to make an excuse to come to the kitchen, where he'll go straight down below and wait till it's time to leave, while you take his place and go to Barracks 4, ready for the head count. Fuller and his lads will distract the guard while the switch is going on. Nev tells me he's got it all worked out."

"What if the guard notices I'm gone?" asked Andrew.

"I don't think you need worry," replied Sims, still grinning. "Heidelbacher's not very bright, and Fuller's got him well under the thumb."

The player at the other end finished his turn, and Sims stooped to pick up the horseshoes, and as he handed them to Andrew, another small item slipped from one man's hand to the other; a plain gold ring.

"Try not to lose it," murmured Sims. "It's part of my retirement fund."

Andrew slipped the ring into his pocket. "Don't worry, I won't lose it," he replied. "You can count on it."

At five o'clock, as ordered, he presented himself at the mess kitchen.

He'd been quite nervous about this part of the scheme, wondering if the guards would take exception to him leaving the barracks, and unsure whether he knew enough German to convince them it was on the level. Fortunately, Hanrahan had got over his irritation about the change of plan, and as soon as Andrew was challenged, he stepped into the breach with his own rough and ready translation.

"_Arbeiten in das Kuche_," he explained. "Helping the cook - _hilfen der Cook, verstanden_?"

Grammatically speaking, it would have been sufficient cause for an international incident, had they not been at war already; but at least the meaning got through. The guard allowed Andrew to proceed, keeping him in sight until he reached the mess hall, then returning to his beat.

Fuller and his accomplices were already at work, under the eye of the luckless Heidelbacher, who peered at the new arrival through thick glasses.

"Who are you?" he demanded truculently.

"Calm down, Heidelbacher," said Fuller, giving a vigorous stirring to a huge pot of what looked like watery grey porridge. "Andrew here has been misbehaving, so he's been sent here as punishment. Which, quite frankly, seems a little harsh for any misdemeanour, short of burning down the Reichstag." He leaned over the pot, inhaling delicately. "No, it definitely needs something more. Put some pepper in, Martin. As much as you like, it can only improve it."

"Did you want to do something with those tins of Red Cross sardines?" asked Martin.

"No, I'm saving those for Christmas dinner," replied Fuller decisively. "Andrew - oh, for heaven's sake, Heidelbacher, stop pointing that thing at him. He's perfectly harmless." He pushed the barrel of Heidelbacher's rifle to one side, and led Andrew to a high workbench where a heap of sorry-looking root vegetables waited. "We're lucky enough to be getting some roughage today. Make yourself useful, old man, start on those."

"What are they, exactly?" Andrew asked, picking one up and peering at it. It looked tough, fibrous, and dry.

Fuller smirked. "There's a Nobel Prize waiting for the genius who solves that mystery." It wasn't exactly encouraging; and Andrew began to have second thoughts, as it occurred to him that his decision not to escape meant he probably wouldn't get fed anything better than this for a long time. Months, if not years. It was a dismal prospect.

The first sitting came and went, then the second. Fuller didn't say anything, on account of the guard's presence, but his assistants knew what to do. As the third group of prisoners arrived, Martin heaved another pot of barley soup from the stove, and took it out to Hanson at the servery.

"Looks like the bread's running out," he announced, as he came back. That was the agreed signal, telling the others Tony was ready.

"Well, there's not much we can do about it," growled Fuller. "You'll have to start cutting it thinner. Now then, let's have a bit of order round here. Higgins, start emptying the slop buckets, there's a good chap."

"Yes, chef," replied Higgins, snatching up a couple of pails and heading outside. A rattle of bin lids outside was followed by a startled, angry shout; and Heidelbacher, who had been leaning on one of the counters, half asleep, jerked upright.

"_Was ist los_?" he squeaked.

Higgins reappeared. "Heidelbacher, you better come quick. There's a couple of cats hanging round the garbage bins, and you know how the Kommandant feels about cats."

Heidelbacher knew, all right. So did everyone else. Kommandant Vogel's hatred of felines was only a couple of degrees short of pathological; he was convinced they carried every kind of disease, known and undiscovered. Any cats spotted in the compound were to be shown no mercy, and any guard failing to deal with them had to answer for it. So after only a brief hesitation, Heidelbacher gripped his rifle, and went to deal.

"Go with him, Higgins," said Fuller quietly, "and keep him out there as long as you can. Martin, keep watch. Get ready, Carter."

Andrew was already unbuttoning his coverall. His hands were trembling slightly, and his skin prickled with nerves. If this didn't work - if, after all, it turned out he couldn't fool the Krauts - a whole lot of people would end up in trouble.

He drew a deep breath, paused for a few seconds, found his focus. He could do this.

A burst of laughter reached them from the dining room, signalling the next phase of the plan. Fuller waved Andrew back, out of sight. They heard a few angry expostulations, a cheerful apology from Hanson; then the door swung open and Tony stalked in. A dark stain on his shirt front, and a few clinging barley grains, made it clear what had happened.

"Your guy out there needs to practice his aim," he informed Fuller irritably, for the benefit of Corporal Schneider who had followed him as far as the door.

"Sorry, old chap," replied Fuller. "He's just trying a new delivery technique, which he claims will reduce queuing time by fifteen per cent. I always thought it was a mistake, letting him read up on production line efficiency. When a man's ambition gets ahead of his abilities, accidents will happen."

He grabbed a cloth and started dabbing at the spill. "It'll come out easily, you know," he went on. "It's nearly all water anyway, so..." One eye was on the guard, in case of trouble, but Schneider remained true to form. His duty was to guard the prisoners in the dining hall; the kitchen wasn't his responsibility, and after a few seconds he withdrew.

"Right, chaps, let's go," muttered Fuller. "Heidelbacher could be back any minute. Half a moment - just stand side by side for me."

He made a rapid but thorough inspection of the two men. "Very nearly perfect," he said. "Just one thing." And with a quick flick, he sent a spoonful of gruel at Andrew's chest. "In case Schneider's on the ball for once, when you go back out there," he explained, as Andrew gave a startled gasp. "Don't make a fuss, old man."

"Yeah, it's not like it's your shirt," added Tony, with a grin. His excitement, now he was at the point of departure, seemed to illuminate the whole room.

Fuller went to the pantry door, and raised the trapdoor. "Quickly, now," he hissed.

With the ease of long practice, and for the last time, Tony dropped into the tunnel shaft. He paused for a few seconds; met Andrew's eyes, held out his hand and gripped Andrew's in something more than just a handshake, something which said all he didn't have time to put into words.

And then he was gone.


	7. Chapter 7

Fuller lowered the trapdoor, and stood up. "Well, that's that," he said, somewhat needlessly. "Now, let's get you sorted."

He snatched up Andrew's discarded coverall, and bundled it out of sight below the sink. "One of my lads will drop it in to Barracks 10 before roll call," he explained.

"No hurry, I got a spare one," Andrew replied.

He put his hand in his pocket, and drew out the ring Sims had slipped him earlier in the day. It resisted a little going over the middle knuckle of his finger; it seemed Gerhardt's grandfather had small hands. But it felt comfortable once it was on, just a little unfamiliar.

At the door, Martin gave a low whistle, and moved to the sink. Fuller, who had been wiping the soup from Andrew's clothes, pushed the cloth into his hand, and nodded to the door. "Get going, old man, and good luck to you."

Andrew straightened his shoulders. The customary look of vague, puzzled anxiety drained from his face, and his awkward posture realigned itself into a balanced, confident stance. He nodded his thanks to the cook, and stepped out of the kitchen and into his performance.

Schneider gave him a long, curious look as soon as he appeared, and Andrew felt a tightening in his stomach. But he ignored the guard, and gazed round the mess hall, trying to see the other men from Tony's barracks. From one of the tables, a hand waved to him, and he strolled over there, without so much as a glance at Schneider.

"Got your soup for you," remarked Lieutenant Graham, with a grin.

"Yeah, thanks, pal." Andrew inspected the thin, greasy liquid in the bowl without enthusiasm. Now he knew what went in it, he wasn't sure he ever wanted to eat it again. "Sometime maybe I'll do something just as nice for you."

He wasn't certain he'd got the right manner; for a moment he was worried, as he sensed the slight tension in the men around him. Then Graham leaned forward a little, and spoke very quietly. "Tony, what's going on? Didn't you make the switch?"

"Yep. We sure did," murmured Andrew.

"Holy cow!" The exclamation came out so softly as to be almost inaudible. Then Graham laughed under his breath, turned to the guy on his other side and started a conversation about baseball which quickly spread along the whole table, and continued to the end of the meal and beyond. They were still discussing batting averages as they walked back to the barracks.

"...because if Taffy Wright had gotten a fair deal in '38 - yeah, I know, he didn't have enough times at bat, but still..." Graham broke off as the door of the barracks closed behind him, and turned to Andrew. "Man, you're good. You just about had me fooled."

Andrew blushed. "It's not that hard," he mumbled, falling back into his own personality. "Say, you guys were great."

"Tony made it into the tunnel okay? No problems?"

"None at all, as far as I know. But he won't head out for a couple of hours yet."

Graham nodded. "Here's hoping the weather holds. If it rains, he's not going to enjoy the trip." He glanced at his watch. "Okay, nothing more to do till Dietz comes round for the head count. You better find something to keep you busy till then."

Andrew went to the bunk which had until tonight been Tony's. All the lieutenant's personal items were still in place on the small improvised set of shelves beside it; he'd even left behind a photograph of a pretty, dark-haired girl who must be his wife. Andrew picked it up, carefully so as not to mark the surface.

"If anyone should ask, her name's Kitty," said Graham, looking over his shoulder. "She's English, and you've been married for nearly a year."

"I'll remember," replied Andrew, putting the photo back in its place. It must have cost Tony something to leave it behind; but if everything went well, within a few days he'd be with her for real.

_I wonder how long it'll be before I see Mary Jane again_. The thought suddenly appeared in Andrew's mind, but he dismissed it. He couldn't afford to let any possible regrets distract him now. He looked around for something to occupy the time till roll call, and caught the eye of one of the other men, who gave him a friendly grin.

"You play cards, Carter?" he asked.

It wasn't a long wait. The guards generally started their rounds almost as soon as the last of the prisoners had left the mess hall. It was scarcely half an hour later when the man watching the door gave the word: "Here they come."

A few seconds later, Sergeant Dietz's faithful herald, the unremarkable Hans, burst into the barracks. "_Achtung_!"

"Gin," said Andrew, discarding and laying down his hand.

His opponent grumbled under his breath, and scowled at him. "Boy, are you ever on a winning streak, Tony."

Andrew snickered, and got to his feet as Dietz strolled in. He seemed perfectly relaxed, standing easily with his head slightly tilted and a smile still lingering on his lips, but behind the facade, he was more nervous than he'd been at any time since Seymour had authorised the change of plan. The deception had been easy enough in the mess hall, when he was just one man amongst a crowd. It was a whole different ball game here, with only a dozen men and a Kraut sergeant who probably knew Tony pretty well by now.

"Adams...Billingsley...Cahill...Carter..." Dietz paused, his eyes on the last name. Then he looked up, and found its owner.

"What's up, pal?" said Andrew. "Did I break out in spots or something?"

Dietz smiled slightly. "You know there is a new man in one of the other barracks, whose name is also Carter?"

Determined not to give anything away yet, Andrew shrugged. "I've seen him. What about him?"

The smile broadened into a smirk. "Some of the guards have been trying to tell me he looks just like you."

"Are you having me on?" Andrew gazed at the sergeant skeptically. "You mean the little skinny guy with three left feet?"

"That is the one. They must think I am blind, or stupid, if I would fall for such a ridiculous trick," Dietz went on. "He is shorter than you, and thinner, and..." He peered at Andrew. "...and his eyes are a different colour."

"I hadn't really noticed," said Andrew, his brow furrowing. "Boy, I guess they gotta get up pretty early to fool you, right?"

Dietz gave a scornful laugh. "Any idiot can tell the two of you apart." He turned away, and continued the roll call.

As soon as he had left the barracks, the prisoners got to work. Andrew began hastily removing the lieutenant's uniform; to save getting his clothes dirty, with all the potential embarrassment it would entail, he'd been instructed to leave each uniform in the barracks it belonged to, and to strip down to his long underwear for crawling through the tunnel. Which was, to his way of thinking, almost as embarrassing as getting caught out. "I can't believe the things we have to do," he muttered under his breath, as he undressed.

The tunnel entrance in this barracks was scarcely concealed at all; a trapdoor in the corner, beneath a footlocker, gave access. While one of the men kept watch at the door, the others moved the locker, and helped Andrew to make his head-first descent, with a few muttered good luck wishes. Then the trapdoor closed behind him, and he was in the dark.

There wasn't time to stop and think. Closing his eyes - he couldn't see a thing, anyway - Andrew set off, with a strange kind of inchworm motion which he'd found by experiment to be the fastest and most comfortable form of progress down here. The earthy smell, and the tunnel walls close at either hand, were actually a comfort. There was no possibility of getting lost, as long as he had earth on either side of him.

It seemed to take a long time, though. His anxiety level rose, as he tried to calculate how much time had passed, and he wondered whether he'd somehow missed the exit. He got so keyed up that when the ping-pong ball on its string touched him lightly on the forehead, the shock almost caused him to panic. For a couple of seconds he lay still, his heart racing and his breath coming in gasps. Then he twisted over onto his back, felt for the shaft leading up to Barracks 10, and hauled himself up. A glow of light from above told him his barracks mates had already opened the hatch for him; friendly hands gripped his arms, and he was pulled up so fast it almost made him dizzy.

"Great timing, Andrew," said Hanrahan's voice in his ear. "The goons are still in Barracks 8, we got plenty of time."

Andrew rubbed his eyes, and looked round. Lopez had his coverall ready, and quickly helped him to pull it on. Clarke was standing by with his boots, and Thorpe had started sweeping away all traces of his arrival.

"They just left Barracks 8," called Allen.

"Someone get a damp cloth," said Hanrahan. "You got some dirt on your face, Andrew. Apart from that, you look okay." He grabbed the cloth from Clarke's hand and hastily scrubbed it across Andrew's forehead. "Now comb your hair, and take off that ring."

Andrew was already trying to get the wedding ring off his finger. He gave it a twist, attempting to jiggle it over the knuckle. "It won't come off," he muttered.

Hanrahan came to his assistance, yanking at the gold band with enough force to prompt an "Ow!" from his victim. But Gerhardt's keepsake seemed to have become permanently fixed in place on Andrew's hand.

"They're just coming out of Barracks 9." Allen closed the door, and retreated.

"Damn it, just put your gloves on," Hanrahan ordered. "We'll fix it after they've gone."

Andrew scrabbled for his gloves and drew them on, hiding the tell-tale wedding ring from sight; then grabbed a book and flung himself on his bunk. By the time Dietz arrived, he was to all appearances completely lost in _The House Without A Ke_y, and he showed every sign of irritable reluctance at having to leave it.

Dietz regarded him with a smirk. "You see, Hans?" he said, when he'd finished the roll-call. "Take a closer look, and then tell me whether they are identical."

Hans came up close, squinting at Andrew, who backed away like a nervous hen. "_Nein_," he mumbled. "You are right, Sergeant. They do look different."

"Of course I am right. You should learn to be observant, Hans," Dietz proclaimed, as he left the barracks. "You must have eyes like a hawk when you are watching the prisoners. You know, if you want to get ahead in this army..."

The door closed on the rest of the lecture. There was a moment of silence, as the prisoners tried to control their feelings; then Camilleri and Allen caught each others' eye; a muffled snort escaped from Thorpe, and Andrew choked on a half-suppressed giggle. It was enough to break the surface tension; for the next two minutes, every man in the barracks was helpless with laughter.

Finally Hanrahan pulled himself together. "Okay, settle down," he got out between gasps. "The Krauts'll be in here any second, if you keep that up." He took a couple of deep breaths, and wiped his eyes. "Get the place straightened up, and find something quiet to do."

He turned to Andrew, who lay exhausted on his bunk, clutching his ribs. "You okay?"

"I got a stitch," Andrew groaned. Then he snickered again. "We got away with it."

"Yeah." Hanrahan's eyes were still gleaming. "And you know something? I don't think you have anything to worry about. As long as old hawk-eyes Dietz is on duty, there's not a chance in the world you'll get caught."


	8. Chapter 8

To Andrew's relief, the first day went pretty well according to plan. He couldn't exactly say he was having fun, but at least he had the satisfaction of finding out how easily he could put one over on the Germans.

The rain helped. It set in mid-morning, heavy and relentless. The exercise period was cancelled, and the guards, confident no escape attempt was likely under such unfavourable conditions, relaxed their vigilance; they still patrolled the compound, but only sporadically; and they didn't interfere with the prisoners.

"Which is jolly good luck, as long as it stops before Friday, and as long as the water doesn't get into the tunnel," remarked Seymour, standing at the door of Barracks 1 watching the downpour. "We don't want young Andrew to be flooded out down there."

"He's doing a bang-up job, you know, guv," replied Sims. "Seems a rotten shame he had to miss his chance. I was wondering whether we might consider letting him go with the other lads heading out on Friday night."

Seymour gave the suggestion some thought, then shook his head. "No, I'm afraid it won't do. We've no way of letting our friends on the outside know, and we can't send them an extra man without notice. But we'll find a place for him in the next scheme, if it's at all possible."

The conversation paused as a very unhappy Hans plodded past on his round, water dripping from his helmet, his boots squelching in the mud.

"Do you think the lieutenant made it to the safe house?" murmured Sims, once the guard was out of earshot.

"Twelve hours since he left, and no sign of trouble. I'd say there's a good chance," said Seymour. "But don't let's assume anything yet. Just because the Jerries haven't missed him yet, doesn't mean he's safe."

The same thought was in Andrew's mind. All night he had lain sleepless in his bunk, expecting any minute to hear the alarm sound, and the furious barking of the guard dogs as they were released to hunt down the escapee. He had no doubts about what those dogs would do to Tony, if they found him; no matter how much he tried not to think about it, his imagination continued to raise the same terrifying image. It was a relief when morning came, and he could focus on getting to the other barracks, and seeing if he could still fool Dietz.

As it happened, Dietz had something else to worry about this morning. He seemed decidedly preoccupied as he checked off the occupants of Barracks 4, and by the time he reached Barracks 10, the pallor of his complexion, and the beads of sweat forming on his brow, made the cause of his self-absorption perfectly clear.

"Not feeling well this morning, Dietz?" asked Hanrahan, in a tone of kindly concern. "You just need your breakfast, that's all it is. Let's see now, it's Wednesday , so it's sausages, right?"

"No, Sarge, that's on Tuesdays," put in Camilleri. "Wednesday in the sergeants' mess it's fried potatoes and eggs."

"Oh, yeah. Gee, I hope the eggs aren't stale," murmured Hanrahan. "You know how they smell, when they're just about to go bad? Yeah, I don't like that smell. Any of you guys really hate that smell?"

Dietz turned a harried look on him, tried to speak, failed, tried again, then thrust his clipboard at Hans with a muttered "_O Gott_!" and fled. The mystery ailment of Stalag 5 had just claimed another victim.

"Of course, everything depends on who gets assigned to take his place," observed Graham, as the men waited in Barracks 4 for the evening head count. "Some of the goons are actually smarter than Dietz."

Andrew had just finished scrubbing his fingernails; a lot of soil got under them while he was in transit, which was a potential giveaway. "I reckon the dogs are smarter than Dietz," he remarked.

The rough towel he was drying his hands on caught slightly against the gold ring on his finger. That thing was starting to annoy him; he couldn't wait to get rid of it. Maybe if they got some really soapy water...

Billingsley, at the door, turned his head. "I don't think we got anything to worry about," he said. "It's Fuchs."

"The supply sergeant?" Graham uttered a derisive snort. "They must be getting desperate."

If Sergeant Fuchs was not quite as incompetent as that, he certainly wasn't the ideal substitute, from the Kraut point of view. His English was limited; his usual duties, and his rigid adherence to the non-fraternisation rules, meant he hardly knew any of the inmates even by sight; and his fussy, precise nature, so perfectly suited to organising deliveries and distribution of supplies, did him no favours when it came to dealing with his fellow beings.

"It'll be just like when he checks off the supplies," said Graham. "As long as he's got all the sacks of potatoes he's supposed to have, he doesn't care if they're the right ones or not."

He had Fuchs summed up about right. The sergeant didn't even look at the Carter in Barracks 4, but simply marked him off the list. However, the recurrence of the name in Barracks 10, a short while later, gave him pause. "You are related with this other man?" he asked.

Andrew's forehead wrinkled in thought. "Gee, I don't think so," he replied vaguely. "It's a pretty common name back home. There's dozens of Carters in the phone directory, even in Bullfrog, North Dakota. That's where I grew up," he added helpfully. "It's kind of a suburb of Crabapple Junction, which is..."

Before he could get fairly started, Fuchs held up one finger to silence him. Then he pencilled a very neat tick on his list. "Carter - check."

"Golly," murmured Andrew pensively, after the guards had left, "you just can't be friendly with some people. I guess counting tins of beans all day can send a guy sour eventually."

He slept better that night. Tony must have reached the Underground by now; he should be well on his way to Goldilocks, whoever that was. The deception appeared to be working; the guards didn't seem to suspect a thing, and he was actually starting to enjoy himself a little. But he'd be glad when Friday night brought the whole performance to a close.

The rain eased to a fine misty drizzle overnight, and Thursday morning brought the first real chill of autumn. Cold radiated inwards from the walls of the tunnel, making Andrew shiver as he crept along.

He was getting used to the distance now, and knew when he was getting close, even before he felt the soft reassuring touch of the dangling ping pong ball. But there was no gleam of light from the shaft above. Andrew pulled himself upright, feeling for the trapdoor. It was still closed; he braced his hands against it and pushed, but it didn't move.

"Come on, guys," he muttered. "Stop fooling round."

He went to give the timber a sharp rap with his knuckles; but held back. Graham and his men knew how much depended on Andrew getting up into the barracks as quickly as possible. Anyway, they'd never leave him stuck down here without a good reason. Once he was in the shaft, going back was pretty well impossible; there was no room to turn around. Graham knew all about that. Maybe there was just some kind of delay. They'd let him out any second.

_Have the Krauts gotten on to us?_

Andrew felt sick at the thought. If the guards twigged to what was going on, they'd tear the barracks apart. The voices he would hear, when the trapdoor finally opened, might be speaking German. They might not even speak; they might just shoot him then and there.

_Don't panic, Andrew._

He leaned back against the wall, closed his eyes, and willed himself to breathe slowly, counting to four in his head on each inward breath, to six on each outward. For what seemed hours, he heard nothing from above.

Then without warning, light streamed down on him. Instinctively he flinched, but a familiar voice reached him: "Carter? You okay?" His eyes fluttered open, then closed again; he reached up blindly, and gripped the hands stretching down to bring him to the surface.

"Give him some air." Graham's voice, reduced to a whisper, still sounded half-frantic.

"I'm okay," Andrew said breathlessly, clutching the lieutenant's arm. He was shaking, but only from relief.

"I'm real sorry, Carter," Graham went on. "One of the goons came in, and - look, never mind that for now. We're behind schedule, we better get ready for roll call, fast."

It had just been a case of bad luck. The guard on patrol had noticed the lights were on earlier than usual in the barracks, and had come to investigate, just as the prisoners were about to open the trapdoor. They'd managed to fob him off, eventually; Andrew didn't bother asking how. But it had been close; too close.

"We can't afford to have the Jerries get suspicious," said Seymour, when the matter was reported to him. "Another day and a half, and the lads will be on their way. Any unusual activity in the barracks is going to attract attention, which we don't want, so let's avoid the necessity."

"How are we going to do that, sir?" asked Sims, as he considered the problem.

"Carter had better sleep in Barracks 4 tonight. As soon as evening roll call is finished, he can head back there. He'll have enough time before lights out." Seymour gave a slight nod, satisfied at the solution he'd come up with. "Let him know, Sims, there's a good chap."

Sims duly passed on the order, during the afternoon exercise period; now the rain was holding off, the prisoners had resumed routine. "It'll only be for one night, two at most," he added, seeing Andrew's obvious disinclination. "It's clearing up, so we won't have to postpone the event. It goes ahead tomorrow night as planned."

"Okay, I'll do it," sighed Andrew. "Boy, if I'd known what I was getting into..."

He nodded to Sims, and walked away. Sims watched him, a smile of real affection on his face. He had worked out a few things about Andrew Carter in the last few days.

"If you'd known what you were getting into, Andrew," he murmured, "it wouldn't have changed a thing. You'd have gone ahead just the same."


	9. Chapter 9

"It's not that I mind," grumbled Andrew. "After all, I volunteered for this job, right?"

"Right," said Hanrahan, gazing out of the window in his quarters. It was the only place in the barracks where private conversation was possible.

"And it's not the worst thing they've asked me to do," Andrew went on. "I mean, some of the things I saw in that mess kitchen, I gotta live with the rest of my life. Let alone all that sneaking round under the barracks, they've turned me into a groundhog, for Pete's sakes. But that's okay, it's just what a guy has to do, right?"

"Right."

"And anyway, it's only for one night, and it's not like it'll be any different to sleeping in here. One bunk is just the same as any other bunk, right?"

"Right," said Hanrahan for the third time. He closed the shutter, and turned around. "So why are you so worked up about it?"

"Well...well, gee...I guess..." Andrew paused, thinking about it. Gradually, the scowl soften into a slow, one-sided grin. "Well, I guess maybe it won't be that bad. Only I've just gotten used to being round you guys."

He paused, then gave a little snicker. "At least I get one night where I don't have to put up with Camilleri wandering round the barracks 'cause he can't sleep...or Thorpe snoring like a hippopotamus...or that thing - well, you know, that thing Clarke does." His voice quivered a little at the last item.

"Yep, we all know that thing Clarke does." Hanrahan's lips tightened as he suppressed a laugh. "I guess that's one thing you'll be glad to get a break from. And like you said, it's just for one night. We don't get rid of you that easy."

So Andrew slept in Barracks 4 that night, and sure enough, it wasn't so bad, although the men here had their little night quirks, too. Cahill's nasal performance, though not in the same league as Thorpe's, had a kind of vibrato which was hard to ignore; and while Hall talking in his sleep was okay, it was a bit weird when Stephens, without waking, started answering him.

Still, it was only for one night, and the sheer relief of having one less pre-dawn underground crossing made up for the temporary inconvenience. And tomorrow, once the big escape came off, he could go back to just being plain old Technical Sergeant Carter of Barracks 10.

_Boy, will I ever be glad when it's over, _he thought, as he drifted off to sleep.

He was in for a very abrupt awakening.

It was still pitch dark when the barracks door burst open. The lights went on, to a chorus of protests which were quickly cut short when the prisoners realised the goons meant business. There was real menace about the way they ordered everyone out of bed, and a ripple of alarm ran around the barracks at the next command: "_Raus!_"

"Outside formation," muttered Graham. "This isn't good."

Andrew kept his head down, but as Graham passed him, he glanced up. "D'you think..."

"Shh. Don't say anything," Graham whispered back. "Just line up and keep quiet, till we know what's going on." He didn't speak again until they got to the prison yard; and then he uttered one word, so softly that Andrew scarcely heard him.

The entire camp had been roused, and the prisoners were being assembled in the main compound, under the glare of the spotlights. As for the goons, they were out in full force; even some of the guards who were on sick call had been summoned from their beds.

Graham pulled Andrew into line. "The Krauts are really stirred up," he said quietly, before a barked order from one of the guards enforced silence.

Barracks by barracks, the prisoners were counted off. Within minutes, all attention was focused on one group. Guards from all over converged on the men of Barracks 10, along with the camp adjutant, who could be seen hectoring a surly, uncooperative Hanrahan.

Kommandant Vogel came out of the office and strode across the yard. "Well?" he demanded curtly.

From this distance, Andrew couldn't hear the reply, but his heart dropped like a stone falling through water, as Hanrahan was escorted to the Kommandant's office. From his place among the Barracks 1 inmates, Seymour started forward, was ordered to a halt, argued the point, and was finally permitted to follow.

The rest of the prisoners waited, for a long time. Finally Hanrahan emerged again, under guard; but he didn't return to formation. Instead he was led off in the direction of the solitary confinement cells, while two goons hurried across to where Graham and his men were lined up.

"You." A finger was pointed pointed at Andrew. "Lieutenant Carter. The Kommandant wants to see you."

It wasn't easy, but Andrew managed to stay in character. "Well, I'll have to check my calendar. See, I'm pretty well booked up until..."

"No talking." The guard jerked his head towards the office, and raised his rifle slightly.

"You better go along, Carter," said Graham.

As Andrew entered the office, Vogel, sitting behind the desk, turned a sharp, searching glare on him. "Lieutenant Carter," he said, slightly stressing the rank.

Andrew flushed, and glanced towards Seymour, who was standing opposite the Kommandant, very stiff and formal. Receiving a slight nod, he came to attention. "Yes, Kommandant."

Vogel continued to study him for a few moments. "You will be aware, no doubt, that one of your fellow prisoners is missing."

"No, sir," replied Andrew steadily. "This is the first I've heard of it."

"Is that so?" Vogel stood up, and walked round the desk, until he was practically standing on Andrew's toes. "Sergeant Carter, assigned to Barracks 10. You know this man?" Andrew kept looking straight ahead, and didn't answer.

"Kommandant, I must protest at your questioning prisoners at random," Seymour put in. "You have no reason to believe this man knows anything about..."

"I have every reason," Vogel interrupted, and Andrew flinched at the anger in his voice. "Two men, the same name, as similar in appearance as twins, and one of them suddenly vanishes. The question now is, which one do I still have? The lieutenant, or the sergeant?"

He stared at Andrew, narrowing his eyes as he tried to find some distinguishing mark which would identify which Carter was standing before him. Then, receiving no reply, he held out his hand. "Your dog tags."

Once again, Andrew looked at Seymour, and once again received a reluctant nod. With a sigh, he reached under his collar and drew out the tags on their chain. Vogel tweaked them from his hand, and inspected them closely, then let them fall. "Now we're getting somewhere."

He returned to his chair. "Very well, Sergeant Carter, let us proceed to my next question. How long has this ridiculous game been going on, and how have you managed to occupy two separate barracks at the same time without raising suspicion?"

"Begging your pardon, Kommandant, but that's two questions," observed Andrew tentatively; his own self again, now the jig was up.

The scorching glare with which Vogel greeted this made him wish he'd kept quiet.

"When did Lieutenant Carter escape?" said the Kommandant, after a pause. There was no response from either prisoner. "Where was he headed?" No response. "How did you get from one barracks to the other without being seen?" Still no response.

For the next hour the grilling continued; the same questions, sometimes in a calm, rational tone, then as a sudden angry shout, and then again low and threatening. In between, Vogel tried applying a particularly unpleasant form of reason. "You should consider your own situation, sergeant. Lieutenant Carter is getting the best of this. You're the one who will pay the penalty for his escape, unless he is recaptured without delay. He must be a good friend of yours, since you are willing to endure the punishment that should be his. And yet, not such a good friend, to go ahead with his escape knowing you would be - what is it you Americans say? The fall guy."

That was hard to listen to, but it was just talk. Andrew knew something the Kommandant didn't. Everything he'd done for Tony was just what Tony had been willing to do for him. So he didn't care what Vogel said, it didn't matter a bit; and he kept his mouth shut, while Seymour did his best to deflect the barrage.

It seemed as if it would never end, but finally the Kommandant lost all patience.

"Very well, sergeant," he said. "If you are so determined to bear the brunt of this, who am I to deny you the chance? Kraus, take this man to the cooler. He is to be in strict isolation until further notice. And make sure he changes into the correct uniform for his rank."

Andrew didn't say a word as the guards took him across the compound, in the grey light of dawn. The rest of the prisoners, still on formation, were watching him, but he didn't look at them.

He didn't know what had gone wrong; he didn't have a clue how the Krauts had got on to them. But once they'd shoved him into the cramped, chilly isolation cell and locked the door, he had plenty of time to think about it, and his spirits fell ever lower, as he came to a conclusion which seemed all too probable.

_What if it was me? What if I'm the one who fouled up?_


	10. Chapter 10

The next few days might not have been the worst of Andrew's entire life, but they certainly felt like it. He saw nobody but the guard who delivered his meals, morning and evening; and even that scrap of human contact consisted only of one hand, passing a bowl of thin, discoloured, rank-smelling broth and a shapeless lump of greyish bread through a small hatch in the wall, and retrieving what was left an hour later.

The first day, Andrew didn't touch it. Hunger conquered distaste on the second day, but the after-effects left him shattered and exhausted, and from then on he only ate the bread, if he ate at all.

Bad as the food was, mealtimes were the high point of his day. He had nothing to occupy the hours in between; apart from the necessary facilities the cell was completely bare. Nobody to talk to, nothing to read, nothing even to look at; and nothing to keep him from thinking about the escape plan, and wondering whether he'd somehow been responsible for its failure. The only other activity available was sleep, and that didn't come easy.

He got so used to the empty routine, that when the door finally opened, he almost panicked; and the fact that his visitor was Seymour scarcely reassured him.

The senior POW officer stopped just inside the door. "Steady, old man," he said.

With an effort, Andrew pulled himself together, and attempted to come to attention. "Sir."

"_Fünf Minuten_," said the guard, and closed the door.

"At ease, Carter," said Seymour. "You'd better sit down." He glanced at the untouched food on the table. "Is this all they're feeding you? Never mind, I'll speak to Vogel about it. I'm sure if I talk loudly enough about the Red Cross and the Geneva Prisoner of War Convention, he'll see reason. How are you bearing up, apart from that?"

Andrew shook his head. "Okay, I guess," he mumbled. "Uh, sir...can I..I mean..." He trailed off into incoherencies, then took a deep breath and started again, more abruptly than he'd meant to. "What went wrong? Because I've been thinking, and thinking, and ...Did I slip up somehow?" The question which had tormented him for six days finally found voice.

"No. If it had been up to you, dear boy, we could have kept the Jerries in the dark till Christmas. No, it was just bad luck. Do you remember how it poured with rain, the day after Tony left? Unfortunately, the water seeped through and weakened the structure at the far end of the escape tunnel, and when the night patrol happened to pass over the top of it, well, it just..." Seymour made a downward gesture with both hands. "It must have been quite a shock to them," he added pensively.

"So...so it wasn't anything I did?" Andrew stammered.

"No, Carter. You did your part perfectly."

There was a short silence while Andrew tried to take it in; but it was too hard, right now, to make sense of anything. He let it go. "Sir, what's going to happen now?" he asked tentatively.

Seymour sighed. "Well, they found the tunnel, so the plan's a write-off. But we're working on a new proposal, and we've reserved a place in it for you." He glanced at the soup again, with a slight grimace. "So try to keep your strength up, there's a good chap."

Conditions improved in the cooler from then on. The food, though still unappetising, was no longer potentially lethal; the guards on duty actually spoke occasionally, and Seymour managed to negotiate a visit every few days. With that, and the prospect of another escape, things were looking up.

But Andrew never got to take part in whatever scheme the escape committee had cooked up. He remained in the cooler for a full month, while Hanrahan and Graham were released to their respective barracks. Finally the Kommandant sent for him, and broke the news.

"I have decided on your punishment, Carter," he said, in brisk, businesslike tones. "It pains me to have to take this action, but considering your disgraceful conduct in hiding the escape of another prisoner, and your stubborn refusal to cooperate afterwards, I don't feel I have a choice."

He paused, regarding Andrew with a slightly acid smile. "There is another Stalag, some distance from here, from which no prisoner has ever successfully escaped. I have arranged for you to be transferred there. If you do manage to break the Kommandant's perfect record, at least he will have to stop boasting about it." His lips pinched; apparently the other Kommandant's success rankled. "But your chances of escape are minimal. You will spend the rest of the war at the toughest prison camp in all of Germany - Luftstalag 13."

* * *

><p>Three weeks had now passed since Andrew had been transferred; and the events of those few frantic days, separated from the here and now by the long period of solitary confinement, almost seemed like ancient history. In fact, until Kinch had asked him about that other guy who was supposed to look so much like him, he'd started to wonder if it had really happened at all.<p>

Standing in formation with the others, shivering in the icy wind of early winter, he felt as if he'd been here all along. This place, so different from Stalag 5, was in many ways identical. He almost expected to see Sims stroll across the compound, bringing a summons from Wing Commander Seymour; or to return to the barracks to find Neville Fuller standing by the little wood stove, presiding over a pot of something nasty.

Roll call came to an end, and the prisoners were dismissed, returning to the activities and conversations which had been interrupted. They were a cheerful gang here at Stalag 13, so it was hardly ever quiet in the barracks. Carter liked it, after the long, lonely weeks he'd spent in the cooler at Stalag 5. Even though he was still pretty new, he joined in whenever he could. But today he had other things on his mind.

He sat on his bunk, and took off his gloves. The gold ring still gleamed on the fourth finger of his left hand. It was looser now; he'd lost some weight in solitary. He could probably take it off, if he wanted to. But he didn't; he just turned it, polishing the surface with his thumb.

"You're not married, are you?" The question came from LeBeau, the little Frenchman whose culinary skills kept the men of Barracks 2 well fed; no barley gruel or black bread graced the table here.

"Huh? Oh." Carter blushed. "No. I got a girl, back home, but we're not married yet. This isn't mine, I just..." He trailed off, finding it impossible to explain what had happened at Stalag 5. "I promised I wouldn't lose it," he finished up at last.

LeBeau didn't press the point. "I made croissants for breakfast. Would you like some?"

"Oh, for heaven's sake, LeBeau," interrupted Newkirk, leaning against the end of the bunk. "Those things won't do him any good at all, they're nothing but air. The poor bloke's practically skin and bone already. He needs feeding up."

LeBeau uttered a scornful noise. "You would have him eat porridge, fried bread, overcooked eggs and black pudding."

"Nothing wrong with a nice black pudding," replied the Englishman, a wistful gleam in his eye. "Makes me homesick, just thinking about it. You know, Andrew, the whole British Empire was built by men who had a good substantial...er, sorry, that just slipped out."

For a moment, Carter wasn't sure what Newkirk meant. Then the penny dropped. "That's okay," he said hastily. "Heck, everyone at Stalag 5 called me Andrew, on account of...anyway, I don't mind."

"You miss them, huh?" said Kinch, coming over to join them.

"Yeah, I guess I do." Carter shrugged, embarrassed. "I mean, you guys are great, and this place isn't so bad. But, well, I ended up with some real good buddies back there."

He glanced up shyly, meeting Kinch's warm, steady gaze; then looked at LeBeau, whose eyes gleamed with friendly sympathy; and finally at Newkirk, with his lazy, sardonic grin. _Maybe I'm going to find some real good buddies here, too_, he thought.

"Carter, can you come in here, please?" Colonel Hogan had gone straight to his quarters after assembly was dismissed. He now stood in the doorway, regarding his new man with a keen, speculative eye. His aspect seemed benign, but Carter gazed back apprehensively, and silently sought reassurance from the others before he complied.

Hogan closed the door. "Have a seat, Carter. I'm sorry I haven't had a chance to talk to you yet. It's been pretty crazy round here just lately. You settling in okay?"

"Yes, sir. It's a real nice place," said Carter. "Well, for a prison camp, anyway."

"Glad you like it." Hogan pulled up a chair and sat down next to him. "Because you're going to be here for quite some time. You know there's never been a successful escape from Stalag 13?"

Carter nodded. "Kommandant Vogel told me before he transferred me from Stalag 5, and it was practically the first thing Colonel Klink told me when I got here."

"Well, what neither of them told you - because they don't know it - is that the reason we don't escape is that we don't try. You've been told what the set-up is here. Part of how we operate is by letting the Krauts think they've got us in a box. One escape, and the security will tighten up until we can't move. So anyone who gets sent here has to accept that he's not going anywhere in a hurry."

Carter sighed. He'd already worked that out, once Kinch had shown him the tunnel, and explained what it was for. These guys could have gotten out of here any time, if they'd wanted to. "Yes, sir," he murmured.

"That being said, there's plenty to make up for it," Hogan went on. "It's not every sabotage and intelligence unit that gets its board and lodging provided by the enemy. And blowing up bridges can be quite a nice little hobby, if you don't mind being shot at every once in a while. Which brings me to my point, Carter."

He leaned forward a little, his eyes on Carter's face as if trying to read his thoughts; which, in a way, he was. "We had a client here a few weeks ago, from Stalag 5, Lieutenant Carter."

"Yeah, I know, sir."

Hogan smiled slightly. "He told me the whole story. Most of it, anyway. And we heard some more from our Underground contacts, so we know why the main escape never came off." He paused, tilting his head to one side. "Lieutenant Carter got back to England okay, as far as we know. He certainly seemed to feel he was under an obligation to make it, since you gave up your place so he could go."

Carter's face burned hot with embarrassment. "Well, it was no big deal, Colonel. It just kind of made sense. I mean, some guys just aren't cut out for..."

"I know that, Carter. But I don't know many men who'd pass up on the chance if they had it. And most of the ones I do know are already working for me."

"Sir?" said Carter uncertainly, tilting his head as he tried to work out what the colonel was getting at.

The smile on Hogan's face turned into a grin. "Carter, I can always use a good man on my team. What I'd like to do is to give you a try-out, see what you're good at, and work out how you might fit into our operation." He paused, suppressing a laugh at the blank astonishment on Carter's face. "Now, I have to emphasise that getting involved is entirely voluntary. We may joke around a lot, but this is no game. The work we do is dangerous. You could end up getting hurt, or worse. So before you decide, make sure you think about it. And I promise, if you say no, I won't think any the worse of you for it."

Andrew stared at him, then blinked and looked at the floor. At first all he could think of was the chance he'd lost; the chance he'd given away. The prospect facing him now was very different; and for several seconds, he was bewildered by the force of his emotions.

Hogan spoke again. "So, what about it, Carter? Are you game?"

_I can still help win the war_, thought Andrew, with an unexpected flush of joyful anticipation. _And maybe have some fun with the Krauts, too._

He straightened up and raised his head, his eyes sparkling with mischief, which found instant reflection as he met the twinkling gaze of his new commanding officer, and blurted out his response:

"I sure am, boy...I mean, sir."


End file.
